


Expert Strategy

by helens78



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Non Consensual, POV First Person, Snuff, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-26
Updated: 2005-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:01:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The beauty of being who you are is... you can take anything I give you, and you'll heal fast enough for me to do it again in the morning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expert Strategy

It's been two hundred years since my last death. I don't love death the way Methos does, and there's no one I'd trust to kill me for pleasure. Not even my brothers. Perhaps especially not my brothers.

I come awake coughing. There's still blood in it at first. And if that witch had known she needed to take my head...

I brace myself on the tent's post for a few seconds as I finish healing. I'm not going to stumble across the camp to Methos's tent. The horsemen are supposed to be invincible; limping would do nothing but harm our image with our followers. It won't take long. And then the witch is mine. She's probably gone back to Methos. I'll tell him to hold her while I take her head slowly. He might have come to care for her, but not enough to forgive her for killing me. You won't choose her over me, brother. I know you won't.

It's a short walk to Methos's tent. Short enough I'm sure he heard her screaming when I had her earlier. I wonder, brother, did the sounds excite you? Did you find yourself aroused by her pain and her deaths and all the things I did to her? Did you hate yourself for it? You've been gentle lately. Too gentle. As if we aren't supposed to kill the ones we love, aren't supposed to hurt them. You're _death_, brother. Death does not play favorites. You should have watched me take her.

I push my way inside. Methos is standing with his back to me, and he doesn't turn.

"Where is she?" I ask.

"Gone."

That's not what I expected to hear. I walk over to him, jerk him around to face me. His expression is neutral, that careful, cautious look he gets when he doesn't want to be read. "Gone to _where_?" I ask.

"I don't know. Gone." He reaches up, uncurls my fingers from his arm. "She left after she killed you. I didn't stop her."

"How long--?"

"An hour."

"Then we can go and--"

"No." This time it's his hand on my arm, pulling me back and keeping me from leaving. "Let her be, Kronos. She's had enough."

I stare at him, unable to form words out of my shock. "Had enough? You've gone soft."

"I haven't gone soft." His fingers dig into my arm, and I can feel how little softness there is in his grip. "I'm just growing to understand what limits are."

It's a mistake as soon as he says it, and we both see it at the same time. I reach up, take his throat in my hand and squeeze lightly. "Are you, now," I whisper. I can't take her head. I _won't_ take his. But limits, brother? What a foolish thing to say to me. To me, of all people.

His body's responding to my touch even if his mind isn't. Maybe he _is_ coming to understand what limits are. That's fine. It's excellent, in fact. If he recognizes what limits are, maybe he'll know better than to betray me if I shove him past those limits and show him what's waiting on the other side.

Maybe not. I tighten my grip. It doesn't really matter at this point. I could justify this as a lesson, or I could skip the justification and simply take what he owes me.

I drag him down to his knees, fingers still biting into either side of his throat. He opens his mouth, trying to gasp in air, and I rub my thumb over his lips. "Want something?" I murmur.

He looks up at me, gets his mouth closed again. I can see his teeth set together, his jaw lock down tight. You _don't_ want this. Ask me if I care, brother.

I let him go, let him breathe, but I get a hand in his hair and grip him hard enough to make him cry out. He could be silent if I ordered him to. I've known times where he's stayed silent through a beating or a fuck or being cut into ribbons. But tonight I don't want him silent. I want the rest of the camp to hear. I want them to know what happens to those who betray me, even if they're horsemen. Even if they're brothers.

"You can fight if you want," I tell him. I dig a leather strap out of the pouch on my belt, something I can tie his wrists with. "Giving in won't make this any easier on you."

"It'll be your turn next," Methos promises. "Whatever you do to me..."

"Good." I snarl it at him before letting his hair go and backhanding him hard enough to send him sprawling. There's not a moment's pause before I slam myself onto his body, pinning him with a knee on his lower back, wrenching his arms behind him and tying his wrists. "Maybe if you take me this way I'll believe you haven't gone soft." I spread my legs, straddle his hips and press my erection against his backside, rub and press, let him feel just how soft I'm not. "Are you soft, brother?" I whisper.

He stretches his hands out, reaches back. It's almost enough to reach my cock. Good. He's cooperating. I slide up and let him have what he's been looking for, resting cock and balls in the palm of his hand.

And he squeezes, tight enough that even through my leggings it makes me scream. I jerk forward, fist my hand in his hair and force his face into the carpet that covers the sand. I could smother him this way. The pain's shooting through me like the worst Quickenings I've had, and no, this isn't softness. He's got me tight enough that if I were mortal it'd be questionable whether I'd be able to fuck anyone ever again.

But I'm not letting him go. And if I'm screaming, so be it. This is how it starts: a challenge, a pain that dares me to give him something worse. I hold tight to my grip until he starts to cough, and finally his grip loosens as he has to fight me, needs to fight to get air.

I push him down harder. He'll pass out long before he dies.

When his body goes completely slack, I climb off him, groaning, amazed I can stand. The pain's gone, but the ghosts of sensation are still there, reminding me just how much he can hurt me if he tries. It's not as if I didn't know that. I shouldn't have been surprised.

I've got just enough time to undress myself and him -- with the help of a knife, of course, since I certainly won't untie him -- before he comes to. I've got him on his back by then. I'm just removing the last of his clothing, and I settle down on top of him, my ass on his hips, his cock snug against my cleft.

Soft, brother? Not for long, I think.

He comes awake panting, eyes squeezing shut hard before he opens them and tries to focus on me. His first instinct's to try to roll me to the side, but he's too unbalanced, and I can lean forward and pin his shoulders down.

"Let me go," he murmurs. "You can't afford this."

"Sometimes I think I liked you better when you were my slave instead of my strategist," I tell him. I dig my nails into his shoulders and watch him try to decide how to respond; first it's a hiss and the jerk of his cock under me, then his expression flattens and he pretends it isn't affecting him. "You never had such an inflated sense of your worth to me in those days."

"In those days I knew I was priceless. How many offered for me? And yet you never even considered sending me away."

"Of course not." One hand moves from his shoulder to his throat, and I pin him with my full body weight. "In those days you were hungry for everything. There wasn't a torture I could invent that you wouldn't beg for. And it wasn't because you were a slave and had no choice in the matter. You loved it. You've always loved it." I let him have a breath, then pin him again. "And if you don't love it now, you'll remember soon enough."

His eyes flash, and I know he'd like to say something. I pull my weight off him again. And I'm rewarded with a warm spray of spittle that hits me just below the eye.

All right. Enough foreplay.

I move off his hips, shove his legs apart with one of my thighs while he struggles to keep them closed. But it only takes one hard slam with my knee to get him to open up, choking on the pain. I wrench his knees to his chest, hooking them over my shoulders so I can keep one hand on my cock and get it lined up properly. And he'd be scooting backwards across the floor if he had any way of going. He's trapped now, and I stare into his eyes as I get my cock at his hole. I can feel his body clenching against me, the way he's determined not to let me in without a fight.

"Brother," I murmur, licking my lips, "it's up to you how much this hurts."

And I shove in, gasping with the too-tight clench; there's a burn from the friction, but it can't be much compared to what he's feeling. He groans, body opening almost immediately, and I shove in harder. A few more rocking thrusts and I'm all the way inside him, feeling him shudder underneath me.

It was like this the first time I took him, the fight, the acquiescence. It brings back good memories.

I say the same thing I said to him then: "Does it hurt? It's supposed to." I give him another stroke, and he jerks underneath me before trying to press his hips upwards. "It's supposed to burn. It's supposed to make you feel torn in half. The beauty of being who you are is..." And I do the same things I did then -- I get my hands on his ankles and force him to bend in half; I give it to him as hard and fast as I can manage -- "...you can take anything I give you, and you'll heal fast enough for me to do it again in the morning."

Methos pants out several curses, some in languages I don't recognize. "I'm not your slave anymore," he grunts. "Don't talk to me as if I am."

I get an arm free so I can backhand him. His head snaps back, but I haven't hit him hard enough to leave him bleeding. "You are whatever I want you to be," I growl at him, "and right now you're the revenge I can't have with the witch you let go."

And he smiles. The motherless son of a bitch _smiles_.

I fuck him harder, wanting him to tear open, wanting him to bleed. It's not enough. It's not going to be enough no matter what I do, because he's already beat me. And though he does scream -- oh, he screams, throat torn apart by the time I'm through with him -- and I do find my release deep inside him, my hand on his throat again, his body slackening under mine as he passes out, it's not enough.

It won't be enough until I win. And I may never win with him.

I pull out of him. Of course he's bleeding; it was more than hard enough for that. I shove him over onto his stomach and listen to him cough as his throat heals and he's able to draw a full breath again; I get the leather around his wrists untied. He slides his arms underneath his head and stretches, letting out a sound I haven't heard from him in a year.

Bliss. Contentment. Satisfaction.

"You--" There's no word in our current language that suits what I want to call him now, and so I give him a few choice curses in a tongue that's older than either of us. I'm never going to win with him.

I suppose that explains why I love him.

"It's cold," he murmurs. "Find a blanket?"

I do better; I get a blanket and curl up with him. It is just like him to orchestrate things that way, to make me believe he cared about the witch, to fire my jealousy until I couldn't stand it any longer. It is just like him to tame her just enough that I believed she was safe, to leave her enough spirit to kill me and escape, to let her go so I'd come looking for revenge.

He shouldn't surprise me by now. But he always does.

"I'd be an idiot to trust you," I whisper against his shoulder. "Tell me again why I don't just take your head?"

"Because who would you be without me?" he murmurs.

Who, indeed, brother.

_-end-_


End file.
